True Love
by TheFutilitarian
Summary: Miranda/Andy. Femslash. Probably sits in the "Adjustments"-verse although not linked. Usual disclaimers apply - I own nothing. I would strongly recommend NOT doing this to your other half - most people are not Andy!


As soon as she walks in, Andy pauses to listen.

Utter silence.

_Shit._

There are two types at 11:30pm on a Friday night -

The welcoming kind –"Hi honey, how are you? Let me help you. What'll make this better?" This is Andy's silence.

And the reproachful kind - "Oh, you **do** know your way home. Has someone died? No? Well - they're about to." That is Miranda's.

Tonight, Andy is the one that's late. She's had a truly shitty week and all she wants is beer, a sandwich and bed. Preferably in that order - though she's too exhausted to really care. The powers that be have other ideas. Or just power - singular, one. For as Andy wearily trudges to the kitchen she spies the table that's been set; candles and flowers.

_Shit , shit._

She doesn't bother reaching for the cell phone, she only got the text that morning - "7pm. Don't be late." _Of course_ Andy was in the middle of an interview, _of course_ Miranda didn't specify what it was that she wanted, _of course_ the battery would choose that day to conk out completely.

_Of course_.

But that is not a phrase Miranda understands. Not unless it is "Of course, Miranda" – which holds an altogether different meaning. Ultimately, if truth be told, it doesn't matter – Miranda's world does not abide any excuses. At times like these Andy longs for Miranda to inhabit hers – the world of mere mortals - if only for a little while. However, that yearning always passes – in Andy's world Miranda wouldn't be…Miranda.

"Andrea…"

The voice sends shivers down Andy's spine, tonight dread equally mixing with pleasure. It's been a year now but that's still not_ her_ name. Andrea is someone sultry, foreign and exotic – something plain Andy Sachs only aspires to be. Nevertheless, she is _Andrea_ to Miranda, and who's Andy to tell her lover what she sees.

She both smiles and sighs in expectation – this should be…interesting, indeed.

The waft of burning hits her first, the smell worryingly unusual. She's reminded of family campfires; everyone huddled together side by side. It's then she spots the bottle of the Romane Conti Burgundy. Closer inspection reveals 1997 vintage - retail price - a mere $1500 a bottle. Miranda's first and only gift – teaching Andy about fine wines, after tonight, quite possibly the last.

The bottle's empty.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Andy proceeds a little more cautiously – at the best of times, Miranda's tongue is capable of flaying skin. After a bottle of wine, a $1500 one at that – well – Andy will be lucky to escape alive. In fact, maybe Andy should be smart and use hers in a more constructive manner. After all, all's fair in love and war, and for these battles, she needs every weapon she can get. Or at least one that has, can and will guarantee results.

"By all means, move at a glacial pace, you have all night."

Andy isn't sure whether that's a dig at her being late or merely a warning of what's to come. Wait, she is dealing with Miranda Priestly, who prides efficiency above all else, it's both. Andy takes a deep breath, silently chants over and over - "I love her" – proceeds to step outside.

Immediately she wishes she hadn't, in fact – she steps back in, closes her eyes and steps back out again. The picture's still the same.

Miranda's sitting in her leather Eileen Gray armchair (Andy doesn't have a fucking clue how Miranda dragged it outside), smoking a cigar and drinking scotch. Beside her is a table holding hundreds of dollars worth of canapés – Miranda doesn't do cheap, not even snacks. In front of her is a plate with what is sure to be one hell of an expensive steak.

Warming.

Over an open 'fire'.

Of what Andy can just about make out to be the charred remains of a pile of clothing. The very same clothes Miranda had _kindly_ asked Andy to remove from within her closet just this morning.

The sleeve of the Northwestern sweatshirt smoulders mournfully.

Andy isn't often speechless around Miranda.

Not any more.

But this definitely leaves her at a loss for words.

Miranda takes a leisurely sip, a self-satisfied smirk settling on her face. "By all means, Andrea, continue standing there, gawking at me like an overgrown giraffe. Although I would've thought perhaps an apology was in order."

Andy splutters, finally regaining her senses. "Wait, _I_ should apologise to _you_?"

"Well, I was here considerably before seven. Were you? This house is huge, did I misplace you? Do we have a Narnia I should know about?"

"You burned my stuff!!!"

Shouting it out loud makes it real, not just the act, but the absurdity of the situation.

Miranda surveys the scene in front of her as if for the very first time. She blinks innocently, "Did I? I was simply keeping your dinner warm for you. You're five hours late, I ran out of wood, what would you have me do?"

"Not burn my stuff!!!"

Andy is still indignant though she can feel her mouth twitching just a little. Normal people would shout, dispense the silent treatment, leave. Miranda chooses to destroy through fire. There's nothing average about that, it's totally over the top. And yet it's that excessiveness which makes it so effective, that really hammers the point home. What Miranda feels for Andy isn't average and she refuses to pretend it's such.

For this, Andy is grateful. For this, she will let a thousand fires slide.

"You owe me lots of stuff." Andy grins lopsidedly, her lips finally unable to suppress a smile.

"Don't call it stuff."

"Oh by the way," it's Andy's turn to be triumphant, "my mother called earlier. Guess what? She said _your _sweatshirt is in the mail, _hot stuff_."

She ducks as a canapé whizzes over her head.

Yep, she would gladly walk around naked, as long as it serves as a reminder - she is truly loved.


End file.
